


Running To or From

by Azile_Teacup



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:50:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3086603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azile_Teacup/pseuds/Azile_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: on the run</p><p>I was watching Covert Affairs 2x04 and got the idea for this one from that. I owe it a chunk of plot :/</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running To or From

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: injury, shooting,

“Ah! No no no no no! Ow, you bastard, ow!”

Arthur jerks the handbreak and they spin, three hundred and sixty degrees, and Arthur accelerates away, throwing their tail only because the idiot hits a tree.

“That will buy us some time,” Arthur says.

“Does your stolen vehicle have tissues anywhere?”

“No.”

“Great.”

Arthur doesn’t get a chance to glance over for another ten minutes, by which time he’s convinced himself that they are more or less safe. Eames’ nose is bleeding into his sleeve. Arthur skids to the side of the road and jumps out, running round to unlock the cuff holding Eames to the roof of the truck, then yanks him to the front.

“Strip,” Arthur says.

“What?”

“Get out of your clothes. That guy found us somehow.”

“I-“

Arthur pulls out the gun he confiscated at the plane, when it first all went to hell, and Eames obeys. Arthur, as had been his intent all along, checks the bullets and finds only one. 

“Damn,” he says, “fine.”

Eames strips to his underwear and stands, shivering even in the heat of South America. Arthur checks his bloody clothes, finding and destroying three bugs. He leaves the clothes on the side of the road anyway, checks the bullet wound in Eames’ side hasn’t started bleeding again and then loads the idiot back into the truck.

“What? Don’t I get my clothes back?” Eames asks as Arthur cuffs him again.

“No,” Arthur says, shortly.

Eames goes very quiet for a bit and Arthur, pleased to have a few moments peace, doesn’t think anything of it. He hasn’t know Eames that long, only a week before being tasked with flying the enemy agent home. Eames keeps saying he’s not a secret agent, but MI5 certainly want him for some reason. Not Arthur’s concern. Arthur just delivers the goods. Or not, if, as has happened this time, they get ambushed, shot at and chased across Argentina for four days. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t check your clothes for bugs,” Arthur mutters, shaking his head in disgust, “what on earth does MI5 teach you idiots?”

“I wouldn’t know. Arthur, as lovely as this naked drive with you is, you should probably pull over.”

“Why? Give me one good reas-“

“I’m going to throw up.”

Arthur pulls over and watches Eames chafe his wrist raw, half falling out onto the side of the road to vomit, knees collapsing. Arthur sighs and goes round to stop him doing more damage and ends up holding the half naked English man up. 

“Sorry, Arthur,” Eames says, “I’d kiss you in thanks, but my breath is probably not-“

“Shut up.”

Eames spits blood onto the road and Arthur’s worried for a moment. 

“Bloody nose,” Eames reminds, “are we stopping soon? I think I need to drink something.”

Arthur sighs. It’s true, Eames probably should have something to drink, and he needs to call in. He hesitates, thinking.

“Right. I will call my office from here, and then we will walk,” Arthur says, sitting Eames on the hot seat and going back round to his side.

“I am mostly unclothed, I have been shot, I wacked my face against the window, my head is pounding from dehydration and probably concussion, we have a very nice truck and you think walking is the best plan?”

“We need to ditch the vehicle. It’s protocol. I’ll find you clothes, your modesty is safe.”

“I was more worried about sunburn.

“Shht!” Arthur holds the phone, now ringing, to his ear and waits. 

“Arthur,” Cobb says, “good to hear from you. Or is it?”

“Sure, we’re fine, Eames is in one piece. I don’t think we’ve been given the truth about him, by the way.”

“No, we figured. Working on that,” Cobb says.

“He’s a chameleon, you should check every corner. Okay, we’re holding up in a small town, heading towards Buenos Aires. Should be there tomorrow afternoon or evening if I can get transport.”

“I’ll work on an exit. The Argentines aren’t happy with having a foreign spy on the loose, so they’re not helping.”

“You mean they’ll arrest us on sigh. Brilliant. Okay. I’ll check in when I can, call from Buenos Aires if not before.”

“Good luck.”

Cobb clicks off and Arthur pockets his phone then ditches his jacket and searches the truck for clothes and shoes. He finds a pair of shorts, a sweat stained shirt and a pair of flip flops. It’ll do for now. 

“Put these on.”

Eames stares down at the clothes as they land in his lap, the flip flops clattering to the floor. There’s blood seeping through the bandage and his eyes are glazed. Arthur curses and binds Eames’ wound with what scraps he can find, just tightening over the bandage. He has to help Eames into the clothes and he has to leave Eames uncuffed because Eames can’t walk without assistance.

“Sorry,” Eames murmurs into Arthur’s ear, “my side is killing me. Never been shot up-top before.”

“Up top? What are you on? I think you have a fever.”

“Yeah. My nose is bleeding again, by the way.”

Arthur pulls out his handkerchief and presses it to Eames’ nose, not even pausing to let him sort it. Eames stumbles along at Arthur’s side. Arthur’s almost impressed with his perceverience. They make it to the second town on Arthur’s list before Eames gasps that he’s done for the day. He’s white enough that Arthur has to go to the less well kept place to stay. 

“I wish there was a safe house here,” Arthur says, checking the windows and drawing the curtains. 

Eames is spread out on his back on the only bed, chest heaving with exertion, small sounds of pain struggling out on each exhale, Arthur’s handkerchief pressed once more to his nose.

“Are you trying to bleed out?” Arthur asks, going to put some pressure against Eames’ septum.

“It’s the heat,” Eames says, “does it for me, ‘m’afraid. Ugh.”

Arthur snorts. 

“You’re pathetic,” he spits.

“Not my fault, mr Secret Agent Man. ‘M just tagging along for the ride.”

“It’s you they’re trying to kill. Want to tell me why that might be?”

“’S the Brits. Always hated me.”

“No, the Brits want to put you on trial, not murder you in Argentina.”

“Huh.”

“For treason. After you went rogue and-“

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why does Britain want you back, then?”

“Espionage,” Eames says, opening his eyes to give Arthur a self important smirk. 

“Shut up. I’m going to find something to bandage you.”

Arthur cuffs Eames to the bed, more for show than because he thinks Eames has it in him currently to go anywhere, and goes in search of first aid kits. He has to check two different hotels before he manages to steal what he needs and by the time he gets back to their room Eames has passed out, bloody handkerchief loose in his fist. He’s managed to get out of the shirt along the way and unbandage himself, and he’s bleeding freely into the sheets. 

“You idiot!” Arthur says. 

Eames stirs awake, then smiles at Arthur and dozes off again Arthur rolls his eyes and gives Eames a good telling off while he deals with the bullet graze. It’s barely a hole, so he calls it a graze. He helps Eames, still mostly asleep, onto his good side when he’s done bandaging and cleaning and stitching, and then lies himself on the floor and sleeps with one eye open. 

Arthur wakes to the sensation of being watched. He snaps awake, gun already out and pointed in the needed direction. 

“Just me,” Eames drawls, “you forgot the safety.”

Arthur cocks the gun to show how quick he is at that and how the safety being on is no guarantee of safety for whoever the gun’s being pointed at, but then puts it back in the makeshift holster- his belt. 

“Morning,” Eames says, unfazed by Arthur’s greeting, “I got coffee.”

Arthur wakes up more at that and realises that sure enough, Eames is wafting coffee under Arthur’s nose. He’s still cuffed to the bed, when Arthur checks. 

“How?” Arthur asks. 

“I yelled until someone came, said it was a sex game and you were sleeping and I wasn’t to wake you, and asked for coffee. The nice lady who turned up was staying in the next room over. She’s from France, and we had a nice chat about BDSM. She was in her sixties, but she knew her stuff.”

Arthur drinks the entire cup of coffee before working his way through that. When he has, he dismisses it as ‘useless’. 

“I’m going to see about a car,” he says. 

Eames shrugs and waves him off. 

“Don’t you want to hear about my espionage?” Eames asks, in the car, eyes half shut against pain and fever, head back, tilted to watch Arthur as he drives.

“No,” Arthur says.

He’s curious, but it’s not his job.

“Tell me how you ended up in the CIA, then.”

“I was recruited at college.”

“By Dominick Cobb.”

“What do you know about that?” Arthur asks. 

“Nothing much, nothing much. Just that he’s your handler. And I know _that_ because I went through your phone while you were sleeping.”

Arthur pats his pockets, relaxing a little when he finds his phone where it should be.

“I have light fingers,” Eames says, actually sounding a bit apologetic, “it’s got me into trouble before. Actually, it got me into trouble this time. I lifted a suitcase that had papers in it that set me off on a goosechase halfway round the world. Do you want me to tell you about it? It could be like a story, darling.”

“I am not your darling.”

“You could have at least got me new clothes. Oh, do you have a handkerchief today?”

Arthur passes Eames the box of tissues he procured, unsurprised to see the man bleeding from the nose once more.

“I think you dislodged something when you smashed me against the window,” Eames mutters.

Arthur ignores that. 

“You speak Spanish,” Eames says, suddenly, out of the blue. 

Arthur glances across to see Eames has plugged his left nostril with tissue. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose to keep from snapping about how unsanitary and disgusting that is. Eames sighs.

“Please, Arthur, talk to me. I know I flirted with you on the plane, but I’m not anymore. I’m tired, in pain, and, frankly, a little bit terrified. Sure, I’m a thief, but that’s it. I’m not some… international James Bond man of Mystery like you. This isn’t my every day life. I stole a bit of paper from Kobol Engineering by accident and… I don’t know where I’m going with this. I feel ill, please talk to me.”

“I learnt Spanish in Highschool,” Arthur says, grudgingly giving in, “it was thought proper to take a second language.”

“Highschool and college. My, my.”

“Mr Eames!”

“Sorry. Habit.”

Arthur huffs out a breath, but finds himself amused by the idiot. He shakes his head and stifles a laugh. 

“I think I’m bleeding again.”

“I thought you put tissues up your nose?”

“Other bleeding.”

Arthur pulls over to check, but finds no blood. 

“No you’re not.”

“Oh. I have a fever.”

“Yes, you do.”

Eames blinks lazily at Arthur, grinning, but he’s obviously in pain.

“Fine. Tell me about Kobol,” Arthur snaps, pulling back onto the road.

“I gave the suitcase back. Just a hobby, didn’t want to be banged up for real. Petty theft is one thing, international secrets is quite another. I took copies and showed them to a hacker friend of mine, though, and he told me a bit about them. We decided to write about it, for a blog. It was stupid. Anyway, I went on a mad search and accidentally uncovered ties between Kobol and the UK government.”

“A company and a government. Wow, that’s revolutionary.”

“Kobol is a front company for an arms dealer in the worst parts of Africa and South America. Probably, by the way, who’s trying to assassinate us.”

“You.”

“Fine, me. They work mostly out of Kenya, which happens to be where I was living most recently. I got a price on my head, fled to the states, and found myself in FBI custody and there were extradition threats for being a rogue agent.”

“What’s your plan now?” Arthur asks, not really paying attention, just trying to distract the man. 

“To get away from the people trying to kill me. Arthur, I think your car’s broken.”

Arthur has heard the suspicious clunks as well. 

They manage to limp to a small village where a man promises to fix the car by tomorrow. Arthur tries to get them something else, but there’s nothing. He tries to persuade Eames to walk the rest of the way, and Eames seems game for it. But he gets all of a hundred yards before hunching over, vomiting into the dust and tearing his stitches. In the end Arthur finds them a disused flat, pays the owner too much money for heating it and providing a bed, and sets about stitching Eames up. Again. 

“You’re hopeless,” Arthur says, “how is an MI5 man so clumsy?”

“I’m not MI5. I’m a petty thief, a pickpocket. I live off gambling with whatever I pick off rich tourists, for christ’s sake! I don’t even know… I’m going to throw up again.”

“No you’re not. Lie still.”

Eames groans pathetically and tries to bat Arthur’s hands away. Arthur grits his teeth and gentles his hands. He doesn’t really think Eames is anything more than he says he is, not any more, and he’s been stitched up without anaesthetic once or twice himself and knows that it hurts like hell, especially like this, when you’re shocky and sick and exhausted. He finds himself absently rubbing a thumb over Eames’ rib, humming a phrase of a song under his breath.

“That’s nice,” Eames says, taking up the thread.

“My buddy used to sing it,” Arthur says, realising what he’s doing and stopping. 

He ties the last stitch in and bandages Eames up.

“Can we forgo the cuffs?” Eames asks, “both my wrists are sore.”

Arthur looks at the raw skin of Eames’ arms and weighs the benefits of using the cuffs. Arthur decides that Eames isn’t going anywhere, and he pockets the cuffs with a shrug. He sits against the edge of the bed and eats the small amount of food he’d been able to find, offering Eames bread and water. 

“Prison diet,” Eames mutters, but accepts.

“Person who keeps vomiting diet,” Arthur says.

Eames is silent for so long that Arthur assumes he’s fallen asleep.

“I fucked my life up,” Eames murmurs, making Arthur jump a little, “I went to uni, I had great parents, loads of opportunities, I just… fucked up. Made friends with the wrong people, did the wrong things. I joined the army, for a bit, after finishing my bachelors. Travelled, taught. I did do things legit for a while, but I always stole things I liked if I couldn’t afford them. I never got caught. Or, well, I got caught once. Started dreaming…”

“Dreaming?”

“Never mind.”

Eames hums the tune from earlier for a while, then there’s nothing but his harsh, pained breathing and little gasps of pain. 

“I didn’t go to college,” Arthur says, eventually, unable to bear it any more, “I was military. Joined the marines right out of highschool, as soon as was legal. Well, technically sooner than was legal, but legal enough. The CIA recruited me when I was twenty, home on medical leave. I thought, why not? What other options are there? So here I am. It’s not really exciting most of the time. This is the first time I’ve been shot at and only the second time I’ve got to use those driving skills.”

“That is a vast waste of resources,” Eames says, whisper soft, sounding amused. 

“Go to sleep, Mr Eames,” Arthur says, twisting to see a flicker of Eames’ eyes. 

Arthur’s just dozed off in a sitting position, too wired to relax, when he hears the boards outside creak. He closes his eyes to listen, and hears it again. He gets up softly and moves across to the bed, covering Eames’ mouth and waking him. Eames lets out a startled noise, then bites Arthur’s hand.

“Ow!” Arthur hisses, “shit, shit. Shh!”

Eames stares up at him, then comes alert and staggers to his feet. Arthur hurries to the window. It’s the second floor, he could get out if he was on his own. The creak sounds directly outside and Arthur’s out of options. He heaves Eames over the window sill and helps him hang, then drops him. He jumps after him and heaves him up, half dragging him over the empty space to the car. The gunshots come as he all but throws Eames into the passenger side. He reaches for his own gun, but there’s a shot right by his ear. He turns sharply to see a dark shape falling to the ground.

“Come on!” Eames says. 

Arthur dives for the car and roars away.

“How did they find us this time?” Eames asks. 

Arthur’s already feeling behind Eames’ ears and in his hair. He finds nothing. 

“I don’t know,” he says, “probably where we were staying. I wasn’t careful, I thought it wouldn’t matter. That was before I knew who you pissed off.”

“Ah. Sorry about that.”

Arthur doesn’t answer, he just drives. He kills the lights and threads his way carefully through small lanes that he only knows from studying maps. They come to a house, nothing else around, and Arthur pulls up.

“I’m going to check for a new car. Don’t move.”

Eames probably isn’t capable of moving. He’s breathing hard, and Arthur’s sure that he’s been crying at some point. He leaves Eames, moving silently in the dark around the house. He finds another clunker of a truck, but when he checks the engine looks alright and there’s petrol and keys so he takes it, transferring Eames quickly.

“God,” Eames says, when they’re moving again, “being shot hurts.”

“I thought you were in the army, tough guy?” Arthur says. 

“I said I joined. I didn’t do it for long and I certainly didn’t get shot. I left very quickly once I realised how painful things would get.”

“Are you wanted for desertion, as well as espionage, theft and who knows what else?”

“No. I’m only wanted for espionage, actually. As Eames, anyway. I don’t think they’ve dug up any of the others.”

“Others?”

“I changed my identity a dozen times.”

“Great.”

“I was a woman for a while, even. I’m the best.”

“You do realise you’re talking out-loud?”

“Hmm? Do you ever go under, Arthur? I bet you’d make a fantastic pointman.”

“What are you on about?”

“Dreaming. PASIVs. You know. I thought Dom Cobb… ha! He didn’t… he retired. Oh my, he actually retired. And he was always telling everyone he was the best. What a bastard.”

Arthur happens to agree that Cobb’s a bit of a bastard, and he happens to have enough of an inkling to know what Eames is on about and he doesn’t like it at all. 

“Do you have any idea how illegal that is?” Arthur hisses.

“Mm, nope. Haven’t done a lot of it, myself. Ran a few cons using it. Let’s run away together and see what mischief we can get into with a PASIV, hmm?”

“Go to sleep, Eames,” Arthur snaps, hands tight on the wheel. 

He pulls out his phone one handed and calls Cobb, once Eames is asleep. 

“How’s the extraction going?” Arthur snarls, patience wearing out.

“About that…” Cobb says.

“Oh, no. No no no! Do not tell me you’re abandoning me here.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I can’t help it, I’ve tried. Eames really isn’t what we thought, and he’s more useful dead than alive.”

“And me?”

“You have an exit. But it’s just you.”

“What am I meant to do, execute him? As tempting as that sounds, I didn’t think such things were sanctioned.”

“Not at your clearance, anyway,” Cobb jokes. Or maybe it’s not a joke. Who knows, with Dom?

“Domonic Cobb, you tell me what I’m meant to do or I’ll crash this truck and call the fucking cops.”

“You’ll end up in jail if you do that.”

“As will Mr Eames. And what makes you think that Mr Eames won’t be as much of a pain in the arse there as he is out here?”

“Fine. Ditch him. Is he asleep?”

“Yes. He’s unconscious after being shot and- yes.”

“Leave him in the car, walk to a main road, hitch to Buenos Aires and I’ll get you out.”

“Fine.”

Arthur shuts the phone and flings it out of the window. 

“Eames, wake up.”

“Hmm, wha? Oh, I though’ was’a dream… ugh.”

Eames grunts and leans forward, then back, then shifts and curses. 

“Are you clear-headed?” Arthur asks.

“Enough. Wha’s’it?”

“This PASIV… tell me more.”

“Are you goin’ rogue, Mr International Man of Mystery?”

“I have no idea. I think I’m probably going insane.”

“Ah. Fair ‘nough. God, fuck.”

“Safe house? Anything?”

“Yeah, yeah. Um… B-Buenos Aires. Was headed there.”

“We were headed to an extraction point.”

“You were… I was… shit, shit! Can’t you drive like a sane- ow!”

“You were… what? What was your plan you little shit?”

“I can pick a cuff lock in three seconds flat and can disappear into a crowd, which I’ve already seen you use to lose us in twice so I assumed it was some kind of… of protocol…” Eames breath catches and he curses again.

“So why are you suddenly trusting me?” Arthur asks.

Eames just shrugs and grins, blood in his teeth, suddenly much more in control of himself and his pain. He reaches across to grip Arthur’s wrist and tugs, and Arthur thinks they’re going off the road for a second, but they’re only pulling off onto a tiny lane. 

“Because,” Eames says, voice low and dangerous, “I want to. Oh, darling, the things I’m going to show you.”

“You’re a bastard, Mr Eames.”

“I am, oh, I really am.”


End file.
